


From the Living World

by mojo_da_jojo



Series: Join Me in Heaven, and Sorrow No More [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9955316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mojo_da_jojo/pseuds/mojo_da_jojo
Summary: As far as plans go, this one is easily the worst they've ever come up with.The Inquisitor is notorious for developing the most ill-conceived ideas known to man and somehow being able to pull them off anyway. This is the woman who lured an Archdemon into Haven just to turn her own trebuchet on the mountain, and walked out of the ensuing avalanche (mostly) unscathed.But this plan is not the Inquisitor's, and there isabsolutely no chancethat it will work."Are you out of your mind?" Dorian demands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's a good thing [Trish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz) is so persistent, or this might have spent another three weeks floating unfinished on my iCloud Drive. As it is, sorry for the delay!
> 
> This fic takes place partway through Chapter Six of [Scars Beyond Counting](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8802808/chapters/20181757), and covers Dorian's perspective on the goings-on in that chapter that Lavellan wasn't aware of. As such, you should read it after Scars Beyond Counting to avoid spoilers.
> 
> Warning for semi-graphic descriptions of necromancy and related corpse.

_So the Maker turned from his firstborn_  
_And took from the Fade_  
_A measure of its living flesh_  
_And placed it apart from the Spirits, and spoke to it, saying:_  
_Here, I decree_  
_Opposition in all things:_  
_For earth, sky_  
_For winter, summer_  
_For darkness, Light._  
_By My Will alone is Balance sundered_  
_And the world given new life._

_And no longer was it formless, ever-changing,_  
_But held fast, immutable,_  
_With Words for heaven and for earth, sea and sky._  
_At last did the Maker_  
_From the living world_  
_Make men. Immutable, as the substance of the earth,_  
_With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear,_  
_Endless possibilities._

_\- Threnodies 5:5-6_

As far as plans go, this one is easily the worst they've ever come up with.

The Inquisitor is notorious for developing the most ill-conceived ideas known to man and somehow being able to pull them off anyway. This is the woman who lured an Archdemon into Haven just to turn her own trebuchet on the mountain, and walked out of the ensuing avalanche (mostly) unscathed. The same woman who fought through an entire keep of bandits just to drain an entire lake for _one_ Fade rift at the bottom; who ran headfirst into a fight with a _lightning dragon_ while submerged to the knees in swamp water; who charged into the Temple of Mythal with no escape plan other than "there's _probably_ a magical mirror-portal somewhere in there. Probably."

But this plan is not the Inquisitor's, and there is _absolutely no chance_ that it will work.

"Are you out of your mind?" Dorian demands.

He and Cullen had followed Leliana to her office at her request, after Lavellan had stormed off and Vivienne had gone after her. Dorian had assumed she'd needed his advice on some matter of magical scheme, but this? This is madness.

"You said it was possible in theory," Leliana points out, a little testily.

"In theory!" Dorian says. "With an unlimited supply of lyrium, four other magisters, and at _least_ six months of research and preparation. Not with - what, two hours? And whatever last-minute supplies you can scrape together?"

"I can find you the lyrium you need," Cullen says. "The Order has access to plenty."

"Oh, good," Dorian mocks, "then all that's left is to perform an illegal resurrection ritual in broad daylight, surrounded by high-ranking Orlesian officials, in a locale warded against magic, on a political criminal who almost destroyed the world. _Twice._ "

"Let me worry about ensuring we're not seen," Leliana says. "And the wards won't bother us, once we're away from the Cathedral. Can you do it?"

She and Cullen both look at him expectantly.

 _Of course not_ , Dorian wants to say, _the sort of magic you're talking about doesn't even exist._ But then again, theoretical magic has always been a specialty of his, and time magic hadn't existed either, until he and Alexius managed it.

Dorian can keep a corpse walking after its spirit has left it, even keep its spirit tethered for a short time after death. Turning that tether into a permanent one - re-integrating it after its ties to its body have been severed - is difficult, but theoretically possible with enough power. A few magisters have managed it in the past, usually with blood magic, but enough lyrium should serve as a suitable substitute.

That won't do them any good, however, if Solas' body is too broken to function even with its spirit intact - and Dorian's no healer.

"It's too bad Vivienne would never agree to this," Dorian muses. "Though I'm not certain even she could repair a broken neck."

"No," Leliana says. "No one outside this room can know."

"I don't disagree," he says. "It's only that I'm not sure I can fix a body after its been hanged. You're certain we can't simply _prevent_ him from being executed?"

"I'd considered it," Leliana admits. "But Cassandra's sure that the Council won't bend on the Evanuris, not without concrete proof, and if Solas mysteriously goes missing before his execution, the whole of Thedas will be looking for him. Better for him to be believed dead, and no longer a threat."

"There's no chance of replacing him with a double?" Cullen asks. "We'd been considering it in the case of Rainier."

"Certainly," Leliana replies, "if you're acquainted with any six-foot, barefaced elves that look enough like Solas to fool the Inquisitor at close range."

Cullen scowls at her.

"A simulacrum?" Dorian muses, then shakes his head. "No, it wouldn't pass under scrutiny... perhaps a way to preserve the body's state before the moment of death? Or - reverse the process entirely?" 

He snaps his fingers. "Of course! Time magic."

Both of them eye him dubiously.

"The same time magic you claimed was tearing apart the fabric of reality?" Cullen asks dryly.

Dorian waves a hand. "That was a rift in the Fade, enhanced by time magic and spiraling out of control," he says. "This would be a much smaller, much more controlled reversal of time - contained to one body, reversing the passage of time without affecting any of the surrounding area." 

He runs his fingers thoughtfully over his jaw, a habit he's developed since growing his beard. "I'll need a focus of some sort. It's a shame Alexius' amulet fell into Corypheus' hands, it'd be dreadfully useful - perhaps one of those lovely amulets of power, or renewal perhaps? They should be able to hold enough magical energy for me to replicate the spell... then there's the material components, of course -"

"Make me a list," Leliana says, "and I'll find them."

Dorian has a good portion of the ingredients in his own personal belongings, and it takes Leliana less than half an hour to assemble the rest. Dorian burns through three of the lyrium draughts Cullen procures before it's finished, but the result is a passable imitation of the charm he and Alexius had designed nearly a decade ago.

"And there we have it," he says, twirling it around his fingers. "The first-ever Amulet of Stitch."

"Stitch?" Leliana asks.

"A Stitch in Time!" Dorian answers, beaming.

Both Cullen and Leliana groan.

"You're not calling it that," Cullen says.

"I invented it," Dorian tells him, "I can call it whatever I want."

"There isn't time to debate a better name," Leliana says, and hands Cullen a slip of paper. "I need both of you to get to the address written there, and wait for me. I'll ensure the body makes it to you."

"You're going to carry him yourself?" Cullen asks.

"I'll have help," Leliana replies vaguely.

"Remember, no more than seven minutes," Dorian says. "After that I can't guarantee I'll be able to re-tether Solas' spirit, in which case we'll end up with a perfectly functioning body with nothing to occupy it."

"Or you could say... a soulless Solas," Cullen says.

Dorian stares at him. "I have never hated anyone more than I hate you right now."

"Get out of my office before I have you killed," Leliana says.

-

The address turns out to be an abandoned apartment near the Grand Cathedral. As far as location goes, Leliana couldn't have found a better spot; it's as close as they can possibly be without being affected by the nullification aura on the gallows. In addition, the entire building seems to have been emptied. Dorian isn't sure whether Leliana had made it happen, or simply taken advantage of an existing situation, but at least they'll have privacy.

Unfortunately, space and cleanliness hadn't been her priority, so the apartment is a dusty, cluttered wreck. Dorian enlists Cullen's help in clearing the cobwebby sitting room of all furniture save for a relatively sturdy kitchen table, which will serve as Dorian's workspace.

Dorian sets about sketching glyphs as Cullen unpacks their supplies. "I'll admit there's much I don't understand about magical theory," Cullen says, watching curiously, "but I've never seen any Circle mage draw any symbols like this."

"Of course you haven't," Dorian says agreeably. "Southern mages don't practice this sort of magic. The most powerful forms of magic are forbidden anywhere but the Imperium."

"What are these for?" Cullen asks.

Dorian doesn't look up from his work. "Concentration, mostly, and clarity. In battle, a mage might use a staff to store and focus magical energy. In a situation like this, where more finesse is required, I can use sigils like these to draw in ambient magical power, and keep my own magic from spilling outside of where it's useful. How many more lyrium draughts have we got?"

"Four," Cullen says, and hands them over. Dorian uncorks each and lines them up within easy reach on the table. His staff he sets aside. Between the assassins that had come after Lavellan and the spells he and Vivienne had cast to try to pull her out of the Fade, he's used most of the magical energy within it; it'll take a few days for it to replenish itself, especially if Dorian keeps expending his own energy like this instead of recharging his staff.

"You said your time spell can fix Solas' body," Cullen says, "but I've never seen anything good come of a body brought to life. How do you know he'll still be... Solas?"

"That's an excellent question," Dorian says. "The problem is that we don't know exactly what happens to souls after death, do we? The common theory is that they pass across the Veil, into the Fade, and join the spirit world. The Mortalitasi have this fascinating idea that spirits are displaced from the Fade when that happens. And much as I would love to debate the finer points of death and thaumaturgy with you, we unfortunately don't have time."

"Unfortunately," Cullen says dryly.

"Suffice to say that there's a... link, or a thread, almost, connecting a spirit to a body," Dorian continues. "Death causes the spirit to cross the Veil, which erodes the link. But if I can find that link before it decays, I should be able to use it to pull Solas' spirit back to his body. It's not unlike drawing magical energy from the Fade, only instead of wisps I'll be pulling a whole spirit."

"But after seven minutes, the thread will be gone?" Cullen asks.

"Seven minutes is the longest recorded time that's elapsed between a spirit leaving its body and coming back," Dorian says. "It's not an exact process. But time is of the essence."

Outside, the Grand Cathedral's bell tower chimes four o'clock.

"Starting the count," Cullen says, and strikes a match to the time candle they've brought.

Dorian downs a lyrium draught and tosses the bottle aside haphazardly. Its power hits him in a dizzying rush; he's overdone it today, but it isn't as if he's had a choice. Hopefully the lyrium will be enough to sustain his magical reserves for just a bit longer.

He looks up at Cullen, who's turned politely away. "Does it still bother you?" Dorian asks.

"I haven't had withdrawals in years," Cullen replies.

"That isn't quite an answer," Dorian points out.

Cullen rubs the back of his neck. "I doubt there will ever be a time when I see or smell lyrium and don't want it," he says honestly. "But my will is strong. Templars in the Imperium don't take it, do they?"

"Heavens, no," Dorian says. "That might make them dangerous." He lays his palms flat on the table, awakening the sigils he's drawn. 

"I think you'll find I can still be quite dangerous without it," Cullen says, and Dorian smirks.

"I've noticed," he says, letting just a hint of suggestion color his words. "You're quite strapping."

The tips of Cullen's ears flush red, but by the time he turns around there's no sign of the blush on his cheeks. "You take such amusement in teasing me," he says.

Dorian grins. "You make yourself an easy target," he reasons.

"I could be," Cullen mutters, but before Dorian can reply or even ponder what _that_ means, the apartment door bursts open.

Leliana's help, as it turns out, is none other than Sera.

"Special delivery," the odd elf crows, and the two women sling their ill-gotten prize onto the table.

"Three minutes left," Cullen says, checking the candle.

Solas' corpse is - well, it's a corpse, Dorian supposes. It's not as if he hasn't seen his fair share, but it's disturbing nonetheless. Someone (Leliana, presumably) has had the forethought to close Solas' eyes, but his skin hasn't yet taken on the waxy pallor Dorian associates with most corpses. 

Dorian tries not to linger on Solas' - the body's - state. It actually has little bearing on his work. He's far more concerned with the state of Solas' spirit.

He draws on the energy of the sigils until they flare with arcane energy, and concentrates until he can feel the tenuous thread still connecting Solas' spirit to his body. It's - actually remarkably strong, he notices, despite the four-and-some-change minutes that have passed. Bluish-purple light floods the room as he pulls at the link.

"Eugh, don't like that," he hears Sera say, and she and Leliana retreat further away from the table as Cullen hastens to pull the dusty curtains closed.

"It's alright," Dorian says, furrowing his brow in concentration. "I've got it, just need to -"

He directs the spirit-thread towards his right hand, tethering it there. The physical connection isn't necessary, per se, but complicated magic is always easier if linked with somatic components, and he needs all the help he can get in this case. His hands are already starting to tremble with exhaustion; he grabs for a lyrium potion and knocks it back in one gulp.

With his left hand, he raises the amulet. Its enchantment, already prepared, needs only a touch of energy to set off.

"This had better work," he says.

The spell - well, Dorian supposes _explodes_ would be the correct term for it. There's an initial burst of light and force, enough to rattle the floorboards, and then the spell's direction abruptly reverses, pulling inwards with an impetus not unlike something gravitational.

He braces himself against it, willing the spell's shape into something more manageable; within a few seconds he's confined it to the table, where Solas' body is convulsing.

"Maker's breath," Cullen mutters.

Dorian ignores him, putting his effort into containing the time spell without losing his grasp on Solas' spirit. Solas' back arches off the table, limbs spasming erratically; the sigils Dorian had so carefully detailed begin to fade away, erased in reverse order of how he had drawn them.

"Fasta vass," Dorian curses through gritted teeth as he feels his concentration slip. He hadn't though of that.

 _Hold on_ , he thinks, sweat beading on his brow, _just long enough for the spell to work, not much longer now-_

There's a sickening _crack_ , and Solas' head jerks abruptly back. The violent purple bruising round his neck recedes.

Gasping, Dorian cuts off the flow of magic to the amulet and it drops to the ground.

"Are you alright?" Cullen asks, and Dorian nods.

He hasn't lost the spirit-tether, though fatigue is weighing on his concentration. The link is decaying rapidly now, but it should still be enough. He tightens his magical grip on the tether and pulls - 

\- and nothing.

"Come on," he mutters.

Dorian's never pulled a deceased spirit from the Fade before, but he hadn't expected it to be so difficult. To his magical senses, the link feels elastic, like it might break if he pulls at it too hard or stretches it too far. He can't quite sense the spirit on the other end, but it feels heavy, almost, like a hooked fish dragged through mud rather than water.

He frowns, downs another lyrium draught, directs a barrier around the link to strengthen it, and _yanks_.

The resistance gives way all at once, the tether collapsing in on itself as Solas' spirit snaps back into his body; for a moment Dorian glimpses the soul itself, in its rawest form - something ancient and enormous, beyond what any mortal's soul should look like - 

and the resulting ricochet of energy propels all four of them backwards, and Dorian collides with the wall behind him, head cracking painfully against the wood.

Energy spent, he slides weakly down the wall, unable to summon the wherewithal to care about the ungainly picture he must make.

"Are you hurt?" Cullen asks, recovering. 

Dorian shakes his head, and immediately regrets it when his vision swims black. 

Leliana crosses to the table and lays her hand against Solas' neck, searching for a pulse. "He's alive," she says. "Sera, the cuffs."

"I ain't friggin' touching 'im," Sera says. "He was just dead."

"Bring them here, then," Leliana says impatiently.

Dorian lets Cullen help him to his feet and guide him to a chair. "Why, Commander," Dorian quips tiredly, "here I am all weak-kneed, and we haven't even gotten to the good parts yet."

Cullen huffs good-humoredly. "You can't be all that exhausted, if you're still making jokes."

"All evidence to the contrary," Dorian says, "I will likely be making jokes on my deathbed."

"Your nose is bleeding," Cullen tells him.

Dorian puts a hand to his face automatically; his fingers come away bloody. "How embarrassing," he says, and passes out.

-

In his dreams, he hears a woman's voice.

She speaks a language he doesn't understand, though her tone is grave.

 _Dirth ma, da'len,_ she says, _Mala ma halani._

_Ma'athla solas dareth mena elvhen'ara._

Dorian awakens with the bitter tang of spindleweed on his tongue.

"Eugh," he says eloquently, dry-mouthed and nauseous, his head pounding as if he'd drunk himself into oblivion the night before. 

There is a peculiar sensation in his gut, a sort of trembling nausea, as if his insides are shivering. Internal tremors, he reasons. He's heard other mages talk about them, though he'd never experienced them himself. They're a symptom of mana exhaustion.

Understandable, given what he'd just accomplished.

He groans, hoists himself into a sitting position, and nearly has a heart attack at the bald, pointy-eared face that greets him from the side of his bed.

"Vishante kaffas," he swears, "is this how you choose to thank me for saving your life? By watching me sleep?"

Solas doesn't even have the decency to look sheepish. "My apologies," he says, as unapologetically as Dorian has ever heard him. "Next time you're dying, I'll leave you to drown in your own vomit, shall I?"

"There's no need for dramatics," Dorian says, "every mage knows mana exhaustion just makes you stop breathing."

"That's correct," Solas agrees, "unless, of course, one is suffering from lyrium poisoning in addition to mana exhaustion, in which case one might ostensibly drown in one's own vomit."

"Maker, you're insufferable," Dorian laments, flopping gracelessly back onto the pillows. From the musty smell of dust and mouse droppings, he's still in the same abandoned apartment he'd resurrected Solas in. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Less than a day, if Leliana is to be believed," Solas tells him.

"And you're still alive," Dorian says. "Well, that's good. I suppose I _do_ know what I'm doing after all. Any side effects? Dizziness, memory loss, hallucinations? Existential crises over your inevitable mortality?"

"No more than usual," Solas says, and oh, that's a _joke_. 

His voice _does_ sound oddly raspy, despite his nonchalance, and Dorian squints at Solas' throat in the dim light. There's an angry red patch of what appears to be rope burn stretching from the base of his throat to the corner of his jaw, just under his left ear. "Interesting," Dorian says. "I thought that had been reversed. Spatial rebound, perhaps? Only a fraction of a second or so, otherwise your neck would have snapped again."

"It may be a result of ending the spell too violently," Solas theorizes. "An abrupt end to your channeling?"

Dorian purses his lips in consideration. "With a little more tinkering, I might be able to apply a delay on the chronic resonance, so it doesn't cut off so quickly... that is, if I ever get the opportunity to use it again," he allows. "At the time, I was a little more focused on keeping your soul from passing into the Void."

He frowns.

"Which reminds me," he says. "I couldn't help but notice the, er, tenacity of your spirit-tether. You'd been physically dead for nearly five minutes, and yet it hadn't even begun to decay."

Solas looks at him without responding.

"And there's the matter of your soul itself," Dorian says. "When I pulled it back from the Fade, I got a glimpse of it." He can't quite envision it now, but it had felt _wrong_ somehow, as if it didn't quite fit the body it belonged to. "The shape of it, and the strength of the tether - it was artificially created, wasn't it? To tie your soul to your body. You weren't born with a body at all, were you? You were born a spirit."

There's a pregnant pause before Solas responds, his expression resigned. "Yes," he says, finally, "though I have no memory of my existence before. I wasn't like Cole, you see, taking a physical form out of necessity, or choice. I was created this way."

"By whom?" Dorian asks.

"Mythal," Solas says.

Dorian can't help but raise his eyebrows at that. "Fascinating," he says, then realizes, "You're being very forthcoming, aren't you? For _you_ , I mean. Ser No-One-Must-Ever-Know-My-Secrets."

"What good do my secrets do me now?" Solas points out, and Dorian doesn't really argue, too curious about his origins.

"So she forced you to possess someone?" Dorian asks, then thinks better of it; had the body had a previous occupant, he would have sensed the remnants of another soul-tether, no matter how long it had been gone. "No - she must have created that body for you? Or had it made."

"I suppose," Solas acknowledges. "As I said, I don't remember, and by the time I thought to question the process, all those who knew of it were long gone. I can only assume Mythal needed me for some purpose, something only I could accomplish. She knew me, or knew the spirit I was, before. She must have felt somewhat responsible for me. She called me da'len, back then."

"Da'len," Dorian repeats softly, remembering the voice in his dream. "Dirth ma, da'len. Mala ma halani."

Solas flinches. "How do you-"

"A dream," Dorian says, "though I suppose it must be a memory, mustn't it? Your memory. We were connected, briefly, in the Fade, when I pulled you through. I heard a woman's voice, saying something in elvhen."

"Dirth ma, da'len. Mala ma halani," Solas says, and the words sound much more natural in his voice than Dorian's. "Ma'athla solas dareth mena elvhen'ara."

"What does it mean?" Dorian asks.

"It's the first thing Mythal ever said to me," Solas says quietly. "I know you, little one. Now you must help me. I call upon Pride to protect my people."

Dorian remembers the dire tone of her voice - Mythal's voice - and shivers.

Solas closes his eyes. "I would... prefer not to discuss this any longer. And..." He hesitates. "I know you owe me no favors, but if the question of my origins should arise, I would ask only that you allow me to tell our companions myself."

"I won't lie to them," Dorian warns.

"Nor should you," Solas agrees. "It's not a secret, merely a painful memory." His face is grave, though Dorian assumes that's just the natural expression of his face anyway.

"I suppose that's reasonable," he says reluctantly.

"Thank you," Solas says. "For this, and for my life, as well."

"Don't mention it," Dorian replies uncomfortably. "But... really. Don't mention it. To anyone. Ever. These Southerners are awfully terrified of magic they don't understand."

Solas doesn't _smile_ , exactly, but the corner of his mouth does twitch just a tiny bit. "They are, aren't they?"

"Not that I can blame them," Dorian says. "The idea of these Evanuris reappearing in modern Thedas is... unsettling, to say the least."

"They haven't the means, yet," Solas reminds him. "Let us hope we can stop them before they do."

"Leliana's sending agents to warn Warden Alistair, Warden Rainier, and Varric," Dorian says. "Which only leaves you and the Inquisitor as potential targets for this Ghilan'nain."

Solas raises his arms, displaying the silverite cuffs Leliana had commissioned from Dagna. Dorian can sense the nullification aura around them, a dead space amidst the surrounding ambient magic leftover from the ritual. "She won't be able to find me, with these," Solas says, and now Dorian understands why he hadn't even put up a token protest at finding his magic blocked off. Perhaps, too, he knows better than to push his luck, asking for anything so soon after they'd already brought him back from the dead. "Where is the Inquisitor?"

Dorian hesitates. "She... er," he says. "She isn't here. She... wasn't involved in any of this. She likely has no idea it's even happened, in fact."

Solas' brows knit together. "I see," he says.

"It was Leliana's idea," Dorian tells him. "She believes we need you, if we're to put the Evanuris back to rest. You seem to be the only one with any idea how to do it."

"Inquisitor Lavellan disagrees," Solas replies. It's not a question.

Dorian grimaces. "She's never been very adept at separating her decisions from her emotions, and at the moment her emotions are... complicated, to say the least."

"And you?" Solas asks. "Do you agree with Leliana, or the Inquisitor?"

"I wouldn't be here if I thought we were better off with you dead," Dorian points out, a little harshly. "We do need you. That isn't a question. And..."

Dorian can count on one hand the number of people that he can truly open up to in this world, and the Inquisitor in question is one of them, emotional or not. Still, Solas has done him the courtesy of being honest, so the least Dorian can do is return the favor.

"I'm only going to say this once," Dorian says finally, "and if you repeat it to anyone else, I'll send you back to the hangman's noose myself, understand?" 

Solas nods.

"Athima Lavellan is the best woman I have ever known," Dorian says, "and I've never seen her more lost than when you left. Tracking you down, even actively fighting against you, those things gave her purpose, but now... she's lost again, and she needs purpose again."

"And you think I can give her that purpose?" Solas asks.

"Of course not," Dorian huffs. "She's quite capable of finding it on her own, with or without you. I'm not implying that Lavellan needs you. I'm implying that you and Lavellan have a great deal in common."

Solas looks taken aback at that.

"Both of you have been locked into your prospective paths for a very long time," Dorian elaborates. "She reached her goal, and you didn't, but you've both come to something of a standstill, without anything to drive you. You've lost your chance to tear down the Veil. She's lost her position as Inquisitor, even if it was of her own volition. This nonsense with the Evanuris will give the both of you something to work towards, but what comes after? Both of you are going to have to learn to live without some great crisis driving you. And if it so happens that you find that answer together?" He shrugs. "I want nothing more than to see her happy, do you understand?"

"I do," Solas says quietly. 

Solas has a face that can be difficult to read, but there's a touch of _something_ at the corner of his eyes. Anger? Guilt? Sadness? 

If Solas has plans to continue trying to tear down the Veil, Dorian has no doubt that Lavellan will stop him - but doing so may tear her apart, and he's no wish to see that happen. But it's also possibly that he's truly given up, and that he has no ulterior motive in helping them quell the Evanuris. If he's being entirely honest, Dorian thinks it's unlikely that a man like Solas can ever truly be trusted to have no private agenda. But if anyone is capable of bringing that out of him, it's Lavellan. Is there any hope of an understanding between the two?

Dorian certainly hopes so. He's put in so much effort dragging Solas' corpse back to life - it would be a shame to have to kill him again so soon.

Regardless of the damage Solas has done to the world, Dorian can't help but respect the man - not just as a mage, but as a man who knows what he wants and goes after it without hesitation. It's exactly the sort of man Dorian aspires to be. And Dorian remembers how happy Lavellan had been, in those fleeting months they'd been together while they worked to stop Corypheus.

If there's even the slightest chance that someday, no matter how long it takes, Lavellan might find that happiness again... who is Dorian to stand in the way?

**Author's Note:**

> Want to yell at me for waiting so long before updating? I'm on [Tumblr!](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com)


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